


Keep Yourself Alive

by happygoplucky (ironmanisalive)



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Hospitals, I'm not a doctor so if I got something wrong I'm sorry, Surgery, mini-stroke, takes place in the mid-to-late 70s, transient ischemic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-30 21:27:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20780141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironmanisalive/pseuds/happygoplucky
Summary: After the concert was over and the last notes of God Save The Queen had rung out, Roger passed out. They had been walking down the hallway towards the dressing room and he went completely boneless and hit the floor, hard.





	Keep Yourself Alive

Before every concert, Freddie and Roger had a tradition of screeching at each other as loud and as high as each respective man could manage. After that, Roger would down two shots of scotch—no more, no less—for luck and then the four men would take the stage. On this day, however, they had arrived at the venue extremely late due to traffic and there was no time for pre-show rituals to take place. Freddie had looked at Roger and saw a sense of unease in the blond drummer’s eyes.

'He’s probably just pissed that he didn’t get his liquor—he'll get over it.' Freddie thought.

Roger, though, wasn’t concerned about his lack of alcohol. He was actually concerned by the fact that he could barely feel the fingers on his left hand. He knew what that could possibly mean—he did have a degree in biology, after all—but he chose to ignore the potential problem in order to avoid worrying his friends and to get the concert done with. It was their last one for a while and all four members of Queen were looking much forward to the break.

Now, there were three signs that tipped off the other three members of the band to the fact that Roger wasn’t doing alright.

The concert started off with great energy. As the show went on, however, the three men at the front of the stage couldn’t help but notice the lack of power behind the drums. It was just enough that the audience would never notice it, but anyone who knew Roger knew that he wasn’t hitting the drums as hard as he normally would, and his voice was a bit quieter than usual. That was the first sign.

The second sign came after Roger’s drum solo when he’d gone backstage to let Brian have his moment. Normally he’d get a drink (usually beer) and sit and joke with Freddie, but tonight he’d grabbed a bottle of water (cue concern) and laid down with his eyes closed and head resting on the armrest of the sofa and left arm dangling off the side. (“Are you alright, Rog?” John had asked. “’M fine, headache is all,” Rog had responded quietly, his speech was slightly slurred but John and Freddie didn’t say anything.)

The third sign was the most obvious one of them all. After the concert was over and the last notes of God Save The Queen had rung out, Roger passed out. They had been walking down the hallway towards the dressing room and he went completely boneless and hit the floor, hard. He was a short distance behind the rest of the guys, but they ran back when they heard him fall.

Brian, of course, panicked. He couldn’t help but think of his bout with hepatitis and he feared that his friend might have been in a similar state of unhealth. Is he dying? What do I do? What’s the emergency number in America? Needless to say, Brian was having trouble breathing at that moment.

Freddie kneeled beside his unconscious friend and patted his cheeks, trying to rouse him. “Roger, can you hear me?” There was no response...

John, ever mindful, went to find a medic after seeing that Roger was completely out. He also knew that 911 was the number to call for emergency services in America, so he called them whilst he was tracking down the band’s traveling medic.

An ambulance showed up almost immediately—they had been nearby in case someone got hurt at the concert. They strapped the unconscious drummer to a gurney and drove him to the nearest hospital with the rest of the band close behind in a car driven by a worry-stricken Miami.

***  
Roger had been whisked away by doctors the minute they got to the hospital—still showing no signs of wakefulness—and Brian, John, Freddie, and Miami were asked to stay in the waiting room until the doctor came with news of the blond man. Luckily it was late, so not too many other people were in there.

About two hours later, Freddie was drowsing on John’s shoulder and Brian was reading a leaflet on fainting, trying to figure out what was wrong with his oldest friend. Miami had stepped out to make phone calls to cancel the shows for the next few nights, as the band obviously wouldn’t be travelling. They didn’t even notice the man in blue scrubs and white coat walk in the room.

“Family of Roger Taylor?”

The three men snapped to attention and Miami walked back into the room.

“Is he okay? Can we see him?” Brian asked.

The doctor nodded gravely. “Your friend suffered from a transient ischemic attack—a mini-stroke—which explains the weakness and loss of consciousness. His carotid artery was blocked off, which didn’t allow enough blood flow to the brain. We were able to perform an angioplasty, though, which placed a stent in the artery to pass blood through. Everything went well and he is recovering presently. He should be back to relative normal very soon.”

The four Brits all let out a sigh of relief upon knowing that Roger would be okay. They were still worried by the extent of his problem and the fact that he’d undergone a pretty serious surgery, but he would be alright. That was good—they could work with that.

“Can we go see him?” John asked.

The doctor nodded and led them to Roger’s room. The first thing they saw upon entering the room was a very pale and ill-looking Roger. He looked so small in the bed covered in blankets and a large bandage over his neck.

“He should come out from the anesthesia any time now. You’re all welcome to wait here. Press the call button if you need any assistance.” The doctor walked out of the room, leaving the band to themselves. Miami had excused himself to finish his business and then return to the hotel for the night. He invited the three men to go to the hotel with him, but they flat-out refused to leave their friend behind.

After about 30 minutes silence, Roger’s hand twitched where it was being held by Brian.

“Rog?” Brian asked, alerting the two others that something was happening.

“Mmm...” the drummer groaned. “Bri?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Deaky and Freddie are here, too. You with me, mate?”

“...Bri, I feel like shit...”

The guitarist had to chuckle at that. “You’ll be feeling like shit for a while, Rog, you had a mini-stroke.”

Roger finally opened his eyes and stared at Brian with cloudy blue eyes. “I knew it.”

“You knew what, darling?” Freddie interjected.

“That I was having a stroke or something...my hand was numb...” Roger was falling asleep again.

“Why didn’t you tell us, Rog?” John asked. “If you knew that something was happening to you, why didn’t you tell us all?”

“I didn’t...didn’t want to stop the show...”

And he was asleep again.

***  
The next morning, Roger was much more awake and alert. He told his friends all that he knew about mini-strokes and how it could possibly mean that he would be more susceptible to a full-on stroke later in life. They were all extremely worried by this fact, but he told them that he’d be really careful from then on and not ignore possible symptoms in the future.

The doctor came in and checked Roger’s stitches, vitals, etc. and told the musicians that Roger would be discharged in a couple of days, with strict instructions to take it easy for a few days after that. The doctor also informed the drummer that excessive drinking and smoking were potential triggers for strokes and that Roger needed to cut down in order to lessen the chances of another attack or stroke.

“That’s going to be hard, Doc, but I’ll get on it. I don’t want to do that again,” he added while pointing to the bandage covering the large scar on his neck.

“And I don’t want to see you on another operating table, Mr. Taylor, so make sure that your friends keep you on the right track.

Roger smiled at his friends. “I’m sure they will.”

***  
Roger was released two days later and, two more days after that, Queen found themselves on a plane back to England. Roger wouldn’t be playing a concert for a few more months, but he was looking forward to some peace and quiet—well, as quiet as you could get in a flat shared by the four men.

Roger quit smoking cold turkey and cut down his binge drinking by a whole lot. He’d still do his pre-show scotch though—the only time he didn’t do it, he had a mini-stroke, you know, and the blond was sure that there was a direct factor there. He wasn’t risking it—no way in hell.

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic! I hope it's not too bad...Also, I'm not a doctor, so I probably got a lot of the medical stuff wrong. Google can only help me so much...


End file.
